The Night Sky - Stars

There are many things I enjoy about staying in Dumfries& Galloway. One thing, free to all in abundance is the total darkness around the vast area of Galloway Forest Park. On a clear night, the sky sparkles with millions of stars, their brilliance natural and clear, unspoilt by the pollution of town lighting. We can step out of our lodge and just look up into the night sky. This is when I wish I had better vision; so much is lost on me. For the sharper eyed or keen astronomers, the Scottish Dark Sky Observatory is situated at Dalmellington in Ayrshire at the far north east of the forest.

It is comforting to feel at-one with nature beneath this celestial blanket, listening to the owls, catching a glimpse of a deer, fox or rabbit and the smaller creatures that come out at night. This is my heavenly, happy place.

Last week was Bonfire Night. It’s not my favourite time of the year and this is the first time that my priority hasn’t been to keep our spaniel calm. I found myself agreeing to stroll down to the park with my eldest grandson, aged four, and his parents, to watch the annual firework display at the cricket ground. We live in a family-popular area so there were lots of fireworks around us. No sooner had we left the house, all of us wrapped up for the cold, than we were subjected to a barrage of bangers going off from all directions around us. My gloved hand tightened the grip on my grandson’s as I reassured  him that the bangs were only noisy fireworks, nothing scary, and if we keep looking up to the sky, we’ll see the lovely patterns and bright colours. And we did. We stood on the perimeter of the park and watched the fireworks from the surrounding neighbourhood before the cricket club started theirs.  Nearby, some people were behaving recklessly with fireworks. We kept moving out of their way until we gave up and made for home. My grandson enjoyed it, which was the main thing.

Soon I’ll be back in Dumfries & Galloway. The night sky might be cloudy, heavy with rain or possibly snow hiding the stars and moon from view. I won’t mind.

Stars by Emily Bronte

 

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
    Restored my earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

 All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

 Thought followed thought—star followed star

Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

 Why did the morning rise to break

So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

 Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight,

His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

 My lids closed down—yet through their veil

I saw him blazing still;
And bathe in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.

 I turned me to the pillow then

To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

 It would not do—the pillow glowed

And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

 The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

 O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn—

 That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!


Emily Bronte  1818 - 1848

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Family Patterns

It’s good to have a break from the usual work pattern and enjoy the extra day off that a Bank Holiday Monday brings. An extra hour in bed is a welcome rest. It’s nice to relax and make the most of some uninterrupted thinking time to ponder options. Stress kills, someone reminded me recently. I didn’t need reminding. I’d been winding myself into a tightly coiled spring for a long time. Something had to give, and it did. My ‘work-life balance’ fell short of balance and weighed heavily towards the misery that work had become. A pattern had formed. Each week was spent waiting for the weekend, then the weekend was spent dreading the following week. The long winter and a lack of daylight made my feelings worse. Now spring is here, I wake up to the sun filtering through the bedroom window blinds. I can think clearly about making changes in the future, look forward to an addition in the family and gain some mental strength from my background. 

I was brought up in a close, resourceful family where the women were homemakers. From an early age I was taught sewing and knitting by my mother and both grandmothers. I’ve usually got a project on the go and an idea of what will be next.  It’s currently the non-stop manufacture of baby clothes. The other night, my pregnant daughter sent me a Facebook message asking if I would knit something. She included a photo of a child’s jacket with teddy-bear ears on the hood. It was knitted in something soft and fluffy.  My collection of patterns dates back decades but I had nothing like that. The ones I’ve inherited are priced in ‘old money’ and instantly recognised as my childhood clothing. I tried to have a ruthless sort-out once, but I couldn’t bear to part with any of them. With some guesswork and the benefit of my own experience, I found a pattern and the fluffy wool online, and ordered it straight away. I can’t wait to make it for my grandchild. 

My daughter hasn’t followed the family pattern of needlework experts, despite my best efforts. We spent many hours, side by side on the sofa as I patiently taught her to knit. We were aiming for a small blanket of assorted coloured squares. I rescued her dropped stitches and decreased the additional stitches she managed to include until a reasonable square was produced, but the blanket never materialised. Her talents are in other areas. She can make a great cake, for one thing and she’s far more interested in developing culinary skills than I ever was. Her DNA leads her towards practical skills and anything creative is a world away from needlework, but she carries the pattern of the family in her upbringing, all the same. 

There are big changes ahead which will include improvements to my work-life balance. I would love to return to being the homemaker I used to be when the children were young and when the time is right, I will. For now, re-evaluating my current situation will be a step in the right direction.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam.

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Murmuration

Patterns - yes, okay. Let's avoid psephology, holes in the cosmos, the psychological profiling of football club chairmen and male pattern baldness.

I give you the starling, one of my favourite birds. Not only is it beautifully patterned (look closely to notice the fantastic combination of  purples and greens overlaid with striking white spots that give it an iridescence), it's also a great mimic (car alarms and mobile phone tunes a speciality).

beautifully patterned

Most amazing of all is it's habit of murmuration at dusk, when hundreds of thousands and sometimes over a million starlings cluster together to put on the most breath-taking of formation flying displays. The patterns they create are truly astonishing. A murmuration has to be seen to be believed. The photograph below of such a display doesn't do it justice. You have to be there live and in 3D to get the full awesomeness of what these little birds serve up. Clever starlings. They are much-maligned for being noisy and dirty but I think they are wonderful. Mozart kept one as a pet. Debate over.


Blackpool's starling murmuration

This week's poem is freshly-written (ink still drying even now). I hope you like it.

Skyful Of Starlings
As light begins to drain at fade of day,
early arrivals for the main event
settle noisily on telephone wires,
the empty cages of a ferris wheel
and every eave that offers roosting space.
A rowdy flash crowd is gathering
for their special aerial display,
each individual an irridescent sheen
of violet and emerald green
with striking spotwork
scintillating in the slanting sun.

Hundreds become thousands upon thousands
as flocks pour in dense as locust swarms
from all points of the compass.
Finally, with no surface left on which to perch,
as if a critical mass is reached,
in chain-reaction all the resting birds peel off into the air
to join formation with the feathery throng
surely a million strong (if one could count)
already twisting in a smoke-like cloud
across the darkening sky.

This is a murmuration,
one of the wonders of the avian world,
a sodality of starlings
shoal-like in pulsating, gyroscopic dance.
They twist, they turn, they swoop as one
with consummately choreographed aplomb,
throwing fantastic shapes against the sky,
sometimes so dense they blot the sun,
at others fragmenting into skeins pulled thin
only to morph and coalesce again
in beautiful, breath-taking flypast.

They cast their spell as long as light remains,
then with one final spiral flourish
drop like unstuck pixels
out of sight.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S :-)

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Patterns

I am sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen at my Mum's house while I type this, listening to the background sound of rain on the window. Each time I pause to think, I look up and watch the patterns that the drops make as they hit the glass. Random patterns. Not the neat reoccurring type which, although I usually prefer things to be symmetrical and ordered, I love. It's one of my favourite things to do. Sit warm and snug indoors while listening and watching the rain. I find it an excellent time to discover the stillness and peace inside, to reflect with a nice warm cup of coffee or hot chocolate (marshmallows optional, but really tasty!).

But I suppose, although I do most of my blogs from this perch, it is the perfect place for inspiration today. I am surrounded by patterns here and I think it's great! I mean take a look at the lino ....

So, whether it is discussing patterns in sequences of numbers in my son's homework, watching the rain on the window, looking at decoration of some sort or other, the design in block paving or just the ripples in my mug, I am grateful for the multitude of patterns which surrounds us every day. It would be jolly boring otherwise!


Patterning:

I like the look of those circles
as they loop around and round,
intertwining, repeating
from on high to the ground.
I feel I could be swept up
on a never ending loop-de-loop,
swirling, swooping, spinning,
in a revolutionary hoop.
I'd know what it feels like 
to be a Catherine wheel,
always reeling and rotating,
like on a funfair ride I'd squeal!
But now I'm getting a little dizzy,
I really want to get off!
I'd better look at another wallpaper
that ones suddenly a turn-off!


As always, thanks for reading! ;-) x

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Taliesin's Drum

Before we created written language to signify words, we used tally marks to signify numbers.  You might say, therefore that numbers are more essential than words.  Not so.  Rather, we were good enough at using oral language that creating a permanent symbol of that language was not deemed necessary for a long time. 

Oral storytelling, like traditional poetry, is rhythmical in nature and hence incorporates numbers.  Traditional Homeric verse was composed in numerical form, specifically hexameter, consisting of 6 feet, usually dactyls which are made of 3 syllables.  These numbers, the rhythm, were essential to the mnemonic feat of recounting a story which consisted of several hours' material.  But more than that, research has shown that this rhythm is capable of regulating heart rate and respiration.  In other words, it has a relaxing effect on the person who reads it. 

The rhythm of dactylic hexameter can be found in music.  As Steve pointed out yesterday, there is a strong link between verse and music.  The waltz is perhaps the most obvious example of music in triple time which uses a dactyl-like rhythm: Tum ti ti, tum ti ti, tum ti ti, tum ti ti.  This rhythm can also be found in Handel's Sarabande, Amazing Grace, and Toad the Wet Sprocket's Walk on the Ocean.

While maths and difficult logical thought required writing to develop, however, storytelling and verse were created without the need for marks.  This is because the rhythm of the stories that we tell, the ballads, the sonnets, the songs, come from inside us.  We feel our way into a poem.  Certain sounds and rhythms fit around a description in a way which says more than the words alone manage.  We arrange the sounds in such a way that their effect, when heard, forms a pattern.  Because we do love patterns don't we?  And recognising the patterns is one of the pleasures that we find hard to resist. 

Patterns, rhythms, connect us to our bodies.  They remind us of our heartbeat, of our respiration.  They mimic the motion of the waves, the call of birds, the gentle (or not) back and forth of fucking.  Patterns suggest nature and there's nothing more intricate or beautiful than nature.  So when we create patterns, rhythms, we are mimicking Gaia herself.  When we recognise a pattern in art, we pay attention because here is something a human has created which is potentially an echo of the heart of existence. 

Numbers are not a separate entity to art.  They exist at its centre.  But unlike those traders who carved notches into bark, poets don't need to keep track of their numbers in the visual realm.  Our numbers are the invisible patterns around which we tie our ribbons of thought in the hope that someone will unwrap the colourful bows, discover an echo and pass the revelation on in a Chinese whisper so that eventually we all grow a little closer to the truth.

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